The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers (27 page)

The meeting with the patrol must have been an omen, for they didn’t encounter another soul the rest of the way. An attack by night was apparently as unthinkable to the nomads as it had been to the cultured coterie of knights back in the castle.

All but one of the guards at the great siege-engine were enjoying a deep sleep in the several tents at its base. These were pegged into the ice and benefited from the windbreak the catapult provided.

The one duty guard observed their approach and chivaned over, completely unsuspecting. He was probably curious as to what a group of his fellows were doing out on the ice so late at night with a raft full of barrels and two unmoving bodies.

Hunnar met him. He offered him the same explanation he’d given the patrol leader, explaining their partly successful raid. Then he presented the other with a “stolen” sweet-stick. The guard accepted it with thanks.

“Death-Treader did well today,” Hunnar said conversationally. “Would that I had been closer, to better see the fear on the faces of those stupid towndwellers.” The last word Hunnar uttered in the contemptuous tone the barbarians held for anyone fool enough to live in one place instead of moving free with the wind.

“The crew had some difficulty ranging him today,” admitted the guard, “but all will be perfected for tomorrow. We will surely breach the walls, perhaps in several places. Some say it will not even be necessary to attack. With their walls down, the fools may finally realize their impossible position and surrender. That will be even better.” He grinned horribly. “There will be more prisoners to play with.”

“True,” Hunnar agreed. “But I hear the strain on Death-Treader was great today.” He pointed upward. “Is that not a crack in the bindings I see? There, on the Arm. After not having worked for so long, it may have rotted.”

The guard turned to look. “I see no crack. But wait, Death-Treader was used only four kuvits ago, in practice for the usual care.” He started to whirl, his voice rising. “Who—?”

Hunnar’s dirk went right through his throat, ripping up into the larynx. The guard choked on the blood, staggered, and sank to the ice without a cry. Hunnar wiped the blade on his leggings.

“That’s it, young feller!” said September, scrambling to his feet and slapping Ethan on the shoulder. “Let’s go!”

“If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon skip this part. I’ll stay here.”

“Oh.” September looked at him understandingly in the dark. “I know, my lad. No problem.”

Ethan and four others began unloading the raft. Hunnar, September, and the other knights and soldiers entered the tents on the far side of the catapult and silently set about the bloody job of disposing of the sleeping guards. By the time they’d finished their grisly work, Ethan and his companions were already scrambling up into the wood and fiber framework.

“Pass it up!” he yelled down, holding tight to the superstructure with both legs. The wind tore and battered at him, angrily trying to sweep him off his perch.

“Quickly now!” sounded Hunnar’s voice. They were very close to the main body of the nomad camp.

Thick, syrupy vol oil was ladled over the wood, bracings, and bindings until the oleaginous mess became dangerous to walk on. The aromatic stink seemed sufficient to wake the dead. Fortunately, the wind carried most of it away.

There was a shout in the distance. Two of the knights stopped passing oil upward and ran toward the source. They returned a few moments later.

“Two,” one of the knights told Hunnar and September. “Officers. Apparently they were just returning to their tents. I don’t know if they could tell who we were, but they must know there aren’t supposed to be people climbing on the moydra at night. They ran before we could reach them.”

A few minutes later this was confirmed by yells, queries, and concerned shouts from within the nomad encampment. The noise multiplied rapidly.

“Off, off, get off!” ordered September frantically. Slipping and sliding on the greasy wood, Ethan and the other soldiers scrambled down to the ice.

A dozen torches were readied. They’d been well soaked in oil and the wind wouldn’t quench them. They were thrust in a circle at September, who paused momentarily.

“It’s not the highest product of our technology, nor the one I’d like to have right now, but I’m glad we’ve got it.” He held out Hellespont du Kane’s expensive, filagreed, iridium-plated lighter.

One torch and then another blazed, stark shadows exploding onto the ice. The shouts behind them grew louder. One of the non-torch-bearing knights had moved toward the encampment. Now he turned to shout back at them.

“Hurry! Someone comes.”

“Scatter them well, mind,” ordered September. Twelve arms spun, released in unison. Only two of the blazing brands were blown out. With the wind behind them, the others carried well up into the superstructure.

They seemed to flicker there, tiny spots of isolated flame. For a horrible moment Ethan feared they wouldn’t catch and the whole risk had been taken for nothing. Then, almost together, they went up.

With a roar that briefly drowned the wind and the rising shouts from the camp, the great wooden frame virtually exploded into orange flame so brilliant that the little knot of watching humans and tran were forced to shield their eyes.

“Onto the sled now, young feller!” bellowed September, giving Ethan a shove and not trying to keep his voice down. The tran took up their harnesses and in a moment they were speeding northward and west in a wide curve that should bring them back to Wannome and in through the main gate. If they didn’t make the curve, Ethan reflected, they’d plow full bore into the far side of the enemy encampment.

Now it didn’t matter if every sentry in the camp was alerted. The howls and shrieks of rudely awakened nomad soldiers sounded loud in their ears as they raced before the wind, building speed. Cautiously, keeping a tight grip on the raft, Ethan turned on his side to look behind them.

A tower of flavescent orange, crackling and splitting, clawed at the black sky like a mad thing, while the wind tore away ragged shreds of its head and swept them westward.

He could make out small dark shapes silhouetted against the base of the pyre.

“Look at it burn, look at it burn!” he yelled to September almost boyishly.

“No need to shout, young feller. I’m right here.” He too was on his side, looking rearward. “Poor chaps don’t seem to know what hit ’em, what?”

Something whizzed overhead.

“Whup! I withdraw any sympathy. Seems they do.” A second arrow thunked into the base of the raft. “Damn!” the big man muttered. “Wish I’d thought to bring one crossbow.” He turned and hollered to Hunnar who was chivaning alongside.

“Leave us if you have to, Hunnar! This thing slows you.”

“Not a chance, my friend.”

September looked ahead, then back into the night. “You’ll never make it with us.”

“Tis as good a time and place to die as any,” the knight replied easily. Then, ignoring September’s curses, he let himself fall slightly behind the raft.

Ethan put his hand on his sword hilt. He peered desperately into the darkness, but couldn’t determine how many were following them. There seemed to be more than twenty, in any case.

Something struck September on the side of the head and dropped him as though poleaxed.

Ethan turned, alarmed. “Skua! Are you hurt bad?”

“Relax, young feller.” The big man propped himself up on one elbow, felt his head. “That smarts. Good thing they made these helmets tough. Goddamn arrows.” Ethan peered closer, saw the dent in the metal just above the forehead. If September had been a tran he’d have lost an ear.

Their pursuers were close enough now for Ethan to make out individuals. There was something surreal in watching them move closer and closer with painful slowness, as they made up distance lost on the clumsy sled.

A couple of other soldiers had dropped back to form a rear guard. Now they were flailing behind themselves with swords and axes, trying to run and fight at once.

One of the pursuers shoved a long pike forward, caught a Sofoldian soldier in a wing. The barbarian jerked and the soldier, pulled off balance, fell to the ice. He vanished beneath the enemy and the night as they sped on.

One of the nomads had gained the end of the raft. He grabbed hold of the wood, thrust forward with a spear. September brought his sword down—he’d left the heavy ax behind in the castle. The thick wood of the spear shaft shattered. The other cursed, swung the wood hilt first. September parried it, slashed, and opened an ugly cut on the barbarian’s arm. He dropped away from the raft, clutching at the bleeding limb.

It was growing crowded around the sled. One of the harnessed soldiers was down, a dead weight dragging them back. The others were too pressed to cut him loose. It was becoming impossible to keep speed and fight at the same time.

They were circling in toward the harbor gate now. Ethan did some quick figuring. They’d never make it. They’d be overpowered before they got close. Perhaps the du Kanes and Williams might eventually make it safely to the settlement

One nomad chivaned in from the west and fairly flew onto the raft. Ethan swung clumsily with his sword but it only glanced off the other’s armor. The broad muscular body hit September, knife at the ready, and the two grappled on the pitching, swaying sled. The other was trying to pull the big man off the raft onto the ice.

Desperately Ethan reached over. He caught September’s leg just in time to prevent that fatal roll. Out of the sweat-distorted corner of an eye he saw another of the enemy move in close to the stern of the sled, spear held ready.

He was trying to decide whether to let September go to parry the spear or hope that his armor would ward off the first thrust, when something hit the barbarian with such force that he was almost cut in half. In a microsecond the confusion surrounding them had multiplied tenfold.

September had managed to break free of his persistent assailant and had shoved him from the sled. He gave Ethan an exhausted smile.

“What’s going on?” asked Ethan bewilderedly.

“That fella was tough!” gasped the big man. “They must be sortieing from the city!”

Yes, now Ethan could recognize the armor of the Sofoldian troops as they swept and battered away the sled’s pursuers. Minutes later they dashed under the gate chain and nets and were inside the cold womb of the harbor. The wind shrank to a bearable gale. Utterly winded himself, Ethan collapsed on the sled, not caring if he fell off. He tugged off the uncomfortable barbarian helmet and slung it far out onto the ice.

He lay there as they moved slowly toward the Landgrave’s pier and the cheering nocturnal crowd. While the hysterical populace screamed and sang, he stared up at the strange stars and tried to guess which one was home.

When they finally tied up to the dock and were greeted by the Landgrave himself, not even September could explain why Ethan was crying.

“They’re not going to be throwing even dogfood with that thing for a long time,” September commented. The big man had had his cuts and bruises attended to and now, several days after their desperate sally, looked good as new.

There had been no sign of activity on the part of the nomads after their great moydra had been destroyed. It looked as though, contrary to Hunnar’s expectations, they were settling in for a siege.

It had been nearly a week now, though, and Ethan was as bored as any Sofoldian sentry after days of sitting on the wall and staring out over the ice.

He’d taken to learning sele, a local kind of chess. Elfa was serving as instructress, on strict warning from him that sele was the
only
thing she would try and teach him.

Surprisingly, Colette kept interrupting their sessions with requests for a walk, or correction on a point of translation—she was getting good at the language—or some other trivial excuse. Once she’d even made a couple of attempts to learn the rudiments of the game herself. Standing behind him and leaning close over his shoulder, she gave the board her undivided attention.

However, she’d refused to have a dress made of the local materials; her shipboard outfit was by now ragged and thin, and whenever she leaned over him Ethan was subjected to several distractions of a nonverbal nature. Although he’d been the distracted one, it was Elfa who had quit in disgust and stalked off in a royal huff.

Frankly, it would have been pleasant to say that he was completely unaware of what was going on. But he’d worked too many fine cities and operated among plenty of sophisticated folk. He didn’t like the way things were developing, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. And darned if he wasn’t a little flattered.

Today, however, September had had to come for him in the local library, a fascinating place despite the maddening lack of pictures in the books. But he’d gone quick and quiet when he saw the look on the other’s face. They headed for a section of the castle Ethan rarely visited.

“What’s up, Skua? And why the sour expression?”

“Hunnar once said that he couldn’t picture our nemesis sitting on their backsides for very long without coming down with a severe case of the fidgets. Well, he was right. They haven’t been sitting. In fact, it appears they’ve been working ’round the clock.”

“Small area. On what?” They turned a corner and started up a ramp. “Another catapult?”

“Uh-uh. Hunnar says it would take months for them to rebuild something like that. After having seen it, I can believe him. No, it looks like this Sagyanak has come up with another surprise, and it’s a damn good thing we found out about it when we did. Though I don’t see what we can do about it in any case.”

Ethan was badly upset by the big man’s pessimism. Throughout the battle he’d never been so dour—an island of confidence in oceanic chaos. He sounded more discouraged than Ethan had ever heard him.

“How do we know about this ‘surprise’?” he asked finally.

“Wizard’s telescope,” came the curt reply. As they turned another corner Ethan saw that they were indeed heading for the old magician-scholar’s apartment.

It hadn’t changed from the one time he’d visited it, and it still stank. It wouldn’t have been very diplomatic to point it out, but the expressions on his face should have been sufficiently eloquent.